Conquer the Mist

by Susan Kearney

  At her first glimpse of his beautiful white teeth gleaming in the firelight, she stopped fanning her burning tongue and stared. His entire countenance changed with his smile, the harsh planes of his smoke-darkened cheekbones softened, and the fine lines at the corners of his black eyes made him appear younger. If before she’d thought him attractive, now she found his smile devastating.

  He removed his mail and hauberk, revealing a jagged wound on his muscular arm, and her gaze lingered on his broad chest tapering to a flat stomach and long, powerful legs. She’d assumed he’d come through the skirmish unscathed and wondered why he’d risked his life for her. His actions bespoke a courage and determination which she found intimidating and ominous.

  Seemingly oblivious to her suspicions, he set aside the most tender pieces of meat for her without commenting on her prodigious hunger. She needed no further reminders of her unusual sensual appetites. They shared the trencher in silence until the last morsel of food disappeared.

  She finished her ale, staring into the fire. “Your arm needs stitching.”

  At the husky turn of her voice, his eyes glittered with smoky intensity. “Are you offering to sew my wound?”

  She nodded, surprised she’d agreed, knowing it would have been churlish to refuse.

  He rose to his feet with the grace of a wolf awakening after a nap. “I would bathe before you tend my wound.”

  Bathe? Her mouth dropped open. He might as well have said he would fly. Strange men, these Normans.

  It was common knowledge that dirt protected against all manners of illness and evil spirits, so he could not know of her penchant for soaking in a tub. She, at least, had the sense not to flaunt the teachings of the church by bathing openly.

  While he disappeared into the darkness, she again visited Sorcha. Her friend continued to sleep, and Dara didn’t disturb her. Returning to the fire, she made her preparations, laying out needle and thread, healing herbs, and her wineskin.

  One of her father’s men approached and spoke softly so no one else could hear. “Lady, your father commanded us to give you privacy with the Norman. We will remain within shouting distance should you have need of us.”

  As he stepped back into the shadows, Dara wrapped her arms across her chest. At least her father had listened to her words and was testing the Norman. She wondered if Strongheart suspected, wondered if most kings used their daughters as bait. But then, Conor was not a typical father—her mother had made that impossible.

  “Beguile him,” Conor had told her and then arranged the privacy for her to do so. Just how far did he expect a maid to go? Somehow she didn’t think a beguiling smile and a handful of soft words would charm Strongheart into revealing his plans.

  With darkness, the men settled onto their blankets around the fire. One man played a lyre and another sang a love ballad. A few soon snored.

  In the chill air, Dara held her hands to the fire. The Norman must be freezing in the stream. Perhaps he’d drown of a cramp. She sighed. She’d never be rid of him that easily.

  When he finally appeared, she jumped at his looming nearness. He’d crept upon her with the stealth of a red fox stalking a hare, and her heart thudded against her ribs.

  At the sight of his bare chest burnished by the light of the campfire, her eyes widened, and she swallowed hard. He moved with an unruffled grace and a commanding confidence, towering over her, devilishly attractive, and his sun-darkened chest and muscular shoulders made her acutely conscious of his masculinity.

  The shadow of a beard strengthened the lines of his square jaw. Drops of moisture clung to his damp forehead, and when she took in a deep breath to regain her calm, her senses careened from his musky male scent.

  Get hold of yourself. She’d seen a bare chest before. He was skin and muscle the same as any man.

  Pretending a nonchalance she was far from feeling, Dara fought to keep her voice casual. “Sit near the fire, and I’ll look at your arm.”

  He did as she asked, flexing the muscles of his shoulders as he seated himself, then turned his injured arm toward the fire’s light. Bathing had reopened the wound, and fresh blood oozed from the gash.

  Ignoring the nearness of him, she concentrated on the wound. “The slash is long and deep, but the muscle appears uninjured.”

  His silence unnerved her. As she touched his flesh, he didn’t flinch, but no matter how gentle her touch, she knew she must be hurting him. She frowned. Beneath her fingertips, his skin was firm and hot. Had bad humors set in?

  Her hand went to his forehead, checking for spreading putridness. He raised a brow, his pulse quickening at his temple, but he let her touch him as she wished.

  She spoke in a cool, efficient manner, belying her urge to smooth back a dark lock that fell over his forehead. “Are you always so warm?”

  He grinned lazily. “Warrior princesses have a way of heating my blood.”

  “Let this cool you off.” His unnervingly personal smile reminded her she must work on building her resistance to the man. She poured wine over his wound to make the blood run freely. “That should wash away the bad humors.”

  He didn’t move, except for his lips that split into an even wider grin. “We’ll have to work on that temper of yours, Princess.”

  “Is that so?” She stiffened, waiting to be condemned for her unladylike behavior.

  “Aye. I find your spirited nature . . . exhilarating.”

  She raised her brows at his surprising gallantry. “Did you suffer a knock on the head? You make no sense, Norman. If you find me exhilarating, then why do I need to work on my temper?”

  “Passion needs saving for the proper moments.”

  “Get on with you.” She ignored his teasing, suspecting he wanted another reaction from her. Well, he would not get one. She couldn’t sew him up and argue at the same time. After patting the wound dry, she threaded her needle. “Can you sit still, or should I call a few men to hold you down?”

  “You’d enjoy that, wouldn’t you?” he accused, his tone mild, his eyes hard, but his mouth twitched with humor.

  Could six men hold him? She knotted the thread, then held the needle up for him to see. “Perhaps you should not trust me with such a mighty weapon.”

  “If you are as accurate with your needle as you are with your dirk, I have nothing to worry about.”

  She pinched the wound closed with the fingers of one hand while she sewed with the other. His muscles tensed beneath her fingers, but he remained as still as a cairn.

  “When I was a child, I pestered Da for a fortnight until he taught me to throw a dirk.” She spoke as she sewed, attempting to distract him from the pain, distract herself from flesh the color of fine ale, golden and intoxicating.

  His tone was more curious than condemning. “’Tis unusual for a woman to have such skill.”

  “My guards are not always there when I need them.”

  He shot her a look that said her guards were inadequate, but he did not insult her people aloud. “Your mother didn’t object?”

  She squeezed his skin tighter between her fingers. “I never speak of her.”

  Thinking he would ask more questions, she prepared to rebuff him. Instead, he revealed a little of himself. “My mother died when I was still a boy.”

  Recognizing the longing in his tone, she sympathized. “Have you memories of your mother?”

  “I remember crying when I was about three years old. She swept into my room and held me close, disregarding the stain of my tears on her blue silk dress. She always smelled wonderful, of rose perfume and rice powder. I can’t remember her face, but sometimes when I close my eyes, I recall her special scent and her melodic voice.”

  Was he attempting to gain her sympathy? The circle of firelight amid the darkness seemed conducive to sharing confidences, but not many men would lie abo
ut a childhood story and their mothers. Despite her wish to feel otherwise, his tender story touched her, and deep down she warned herself to beware.

  “You are fortunate. I have no memories of my mother,” she admitted and then immediately was sorry for sharing something so personal with him.

  “She died at your birth?”

  Only because she heard commiseration in his tone did Dara resist the urge to stab him with the needle. He couldn’t know the nature of her loss and couldn’t realize her discomfort with the topic.

  Dara let his question hang unanswered in the air between them. After knotting her last stitch, she turned his arm and admired her sewing. The flesh remained closed, and though he would scar, it would be a minor one.

  Turning his shoulder to inspect her handiwork, his brows lifted at her neat stitches. “Thank you.”

  She allowed herself a satisfied smile. “I’m good with embroidery. Did you doubt my skill?”

  “I’m just amazed you did such a painless job. Perhaps now, we can call a truce.” He reached for a clean tunic and slipped it on.

  She backed away from his intense gaze and packed away her supplies to avoid meeting his stare. “This conversation changes nothing between us.”

  Faint amusement persisted in his tone. “Just like a woman. So we are back to being enemies, are we?”

  She answered quickly, fiercely, over the pounding of her beating heart. “We shall always be enemies.”

  “I saved your life, Princess.”

  “And I saved yours. It changes nothing.” She crossed her arms stubbornly over her chest, wary of him. The Norman’s presence could inflame Leinster’s enemies into consolidating their forces against her clan. If his presence escalated the constant border clashes into a war, she could lose her home. And all her life she’d longed for peace. “You are Norman. You will try and steal the land that is our legacy.”

  His eyes had a burning, faraway look in them, and then they focused on her, full of half promises. “Once I convince your father of my loyalty, you will welcome my help. If your enemies unite, Leinster cannot stand alone.”

  She shivered at words that rang like a prophecy. “If you think us doomed,” she asked in a broken whisper, “why did you come here?”

  “Opportunity.” He winked, his expression hungry. “I’ve come to sample Leinster’s assets.”

  Chapter Three

  FIRE SPARKED IN Dara’s emerald eyes, and Strongheart glimpsed the passion she did her best to hide, along with her daring and her capable intelligence. He barely resisted the urge to draw her close and taste her full lips.

  She shook her finger in his face. “Finally. You admit the truth. You came to Eire—”

  “To make a new home.”

  Her mouth twisted in contempt. “There is nothing for you here, Norman. Go back to Britain while you still can.”

  “Are you concerned for my safety?” He stepped forward, stopping in front of her, looking down at her in confusion. She was complex, this Irish princess—one moment bold and sassy, the next sad, with a perceptiveness beyond her years. He had the feeling she carried a heavy burden on her slim shoulders, and when she squared them, he liked the way she refused to retreat.

  She tilted her chin higher. “Do you not know a threat when you hear one? Even your skill cannot save you from all of Leinster’s men-at-arms.”

  She didn’t understand there was more to battles than sheer numbers and strength, but he saw no reason to enlighten her. “Leinster’s army is no threat to me. I am not your enemy.”

  “Prove it.”

  Her words were an invitation to thrust his hands in her long mane and tilt her head back. They stood so close, he could see flecks of bronze in her deep green eyes. As he pulled her to him, her full lips parted in surprise, and her breasts crushed against his chest. His head dipped and their lips touched. He groaned at the sweet taste of wine combined with her heady feminine taste. For an instant she stood, sweet and pliable.

  The instant she realized what he was about, her hand flew toward her weapon. Anticipating her attack, he trapped her hand and pulled her from the revealing light of the fire. The men around them didn’t stir. No one remained awake to watch, with Conor’s guards protecting the perimeter.

  Hooking his foot behind her ankles, he toppled her to a blanket, his lips all the while keeping contact with her mouth. Her fists pounded his shoulders. Her feet kicked his shins. But he ignored her futile fury and easily captured both her wrists in one of his, drew her hands above her head, and threw a leg over hers to prevent her kicking.

  She tried to bite him, but he was ready, jerking back, then covering her mouth with his free hand. She wriggled furiously, helpless against his strength. Finally she tired of her struggle, but her every muscle remained tense.

  “Kiss me. Then I shall let you go,” he whispered.

  She shook her head, quivering, but refused to look away as if doing so would signal some kind of defeat. At her silent defiance, his blood ran hot.

  He nibbled her ear. “I am in no rush.” Tracing a path down her neck with his lips, he nuzzled the hollow of her throat, breathed in the scent of sweet heather. Her body arched, wrenching her off the ground.

  “Just one kiss, and I will set you free,” he promised softly, pleased he’d found a reason to hold her in his arms. She was so soft, silky, sensual.

  Her stillness told him she was considering his offer, and her trembling revealed her lack of trust. But soon, she’d realize she had no choice. She’d yield to him, and she’d learn he was a man of his word. This time, he had every intention of letting her go—but not until he’d tasted the full softness of her lips.

  She nodded once, agreeing to a kiss, her eyes fierce.

  “If I remove my hand and you scream, I will take more than a kiss.” He would not take more than she would freely give, but it was not yet time for her to know that, or she’d refuse to cooperate. “Do you understand?”

  Again she nodded. Slowly he removed his hand from her mouth.

  “Let me go,” she demanded, her voice a whisper with a thread of silken desire woven through her demand.

  “After our kiss.”

  “Why are you doing this?” she hissed. Unwittingly, she put on quite a show, her breasts rising and falling from her exertions and perhaps a bit of excitement.

  “To prove I will do as I say. To prove you can trust me.”

  Her supple curves quivered beneath him. “Then be done with it.”

  He shook his head and bit back a triumphant grin. “You must kiss me.”

  She stiffened in outrage. “Beast! I cannot even move.”

  “Careful, your tender words of love might incite my lust,” he teased.

  She groaned in obvious frustration and bit her lush lip. “What is it you would have me do?”

  “Everything.”

  She eyed him uncertainly. “Everything?”

  “Aye. I am ready to do your bidding.” He tightened his hands on her delicate wrists, just enough to prevent her from hurting herself by struggling.

  “Sweet Jesu! You are insane.” At his offer her heart fluttered madly against his chest. A flush rose up her neck to her cheeks. She cocked her head to the side, sheer astonishment in her tone. “Let me see if I understand you. You intend to follow my instructions?”

  “Aye.”

  She licked her lips. “And if I kiss you, you’ll let me go.”

  “Aye.”

  Her brows arched with astonishment. “I’m supposed to direct you?”

  “That’s right, Princess. You must tell me what you want and how you want it done.” He peered at her intently, seeing interest war with the anger in her tantalizing eyes. If she found him pleasing, he might have a chance with her. With her squirming beneath him, he’d responded like any man. Yet he must
show her he would not act like a rutting beast but a man of his word. Holding still while her soft curves enticed him was more difficult than any training exercise his father had ever put him through. But he’d succeeded in replacing her fears with his suggestion.

  Her panting eased as she turned over his offer in her mind. “You are serious?”

  “I would not jest about such an important matter. What would you like me to do, Princess?” he asked invitingly.

  A spark of excitement lit her eyes, and he wondered what naughty thoughts raced through her mind. At the sudden challenge in her expression, she clearly schemed to best him.

  “Kiss me,” she demanded boldly.

  “Where?” His lips teased kisses across her knitted brow, her straight nose, her rosy cheeks.

  “Bring your lips closer to my mouth.”

  He tilted his head to taste her lips, enjoying the mounded softness of her breasts against his chest, the sweet scent of her hair, the reckless glimmer in her eyes.

  “Not too close,” she ordered.

  He obeyed, barely containing a grin. So the Irish princess played this game as well as a Norman knight.

  She nibbled his lower lip, then ran the tip of her tongue there. Thoughts of winning vanished as sheer pleasure shot heat straight to his loins. He groaned.

  “Lower your lips to mine,” she demanded in a sensual whisper that demanded instant obedience.

  He caressed her inviting lips with a whisper-light softness. “Like this?”

  “Harder.”

  She played one hell of a dangerous game if she sought to manipulate him by inflaming his passions. Still, at her request, he increased the pressure, kindling a blaze of fire. Damnation! He’d never expected her to feel so good, taste so good. He wanted the kiss to last for an eternity.

  She turned her head to speak and was bold in her demand. “Open your mouth. Give me your tongue.”

  Lifting her head, she strained her neck to reach him. He released her wrists, supported her head with one hand, and basked in the warm willingness of her kiss and her searching tongue. The intimacy inflamed his desire into a blaze until his head spun. She arched against his chest, and he lost himself in her lush lips, which tasted of sweetmeats and Irish wine.